


Losses

by Northland



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Sweden - Freeform, Tales of the Slayers, Tales of the Slayers Ficathon, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northland/pseuds/Northland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trench warfare and being a Watcher have more in common than one might think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losses

_Happy are men who yet before they are killed  
Can let their veins run cold.  
Whom no compassion fleers  
Or makes their feet  
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.  
The front line withers.  
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,  
For poets' tearful fooling:  
Men, gaps for filling:  
Losses, who might have fought  
Longer; but no one bothers._

\- Wilfred Owen, "Insensibility"

* * *

_Stockholm, April 1919_

An embassy party is rarely the most lively of events; particularly a British embassy party, and particularly when the embassy is in a country suspected of using official neutrality to hide its German sympathies during the Great War. The Allied blockade that had caused food riots here was not long over, nor forgotten by either side.

So no matter how hard the wife of the new British ambassador tried, it was hopeless. But Lady Winters did not seem to have resigned herself to social failure yet; from her station in the receiving line, she fired a demanding look at Roderick, clearly willing him to begin circulating among the guests. He ignored her with the ease of a week's practice. He might be her husband's aide, but the other capacity in which he had been sent to Sweden to fill was his first concern tonight. However, locating Signy Lindholm was proving to be more difficult than he had expected. The ballroom was filled with strapping young blonde women, nearly all of whom met the irritatingly vague description he had been given.

Yet another Valkyrie in an especially unfortunate shade of lavender caught his eye as she sidled through the press of guests and into an alcove screened by what appeared to be a centaur dying of indigestion. Roderick waited, but she did not emerge from the statue's shadow, nor did anyone else disappear into the same alcove for an assignation.

His contact had called the woman he was searching for "excruciatingly shy and standoffish." The wallflower in mauve satin was the only diffident figure Roderick had seen at this party crammed with hearty Scandinavians. It was worth inquiring into, at any rate. Straightening his tie, he set off across the room to brave the centaur's den.

"Miss Signy Lindholm?"

Roderick's hand dropped away from the woman's elbow as she turned too quickly for his sight to register. He blinked. _She is the Chosen One after all. _

"Yes, I'm Signy," she said. "But I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, Herr...?" Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"Roderick Travers, your new Watcher. Shall we take a turn about the floor?" He presented his arm.

She was obviously unhappy, but too nonplussed to resist his suggestion; no social graces whatsoever, thought Roderick, or she'd have found a polite way to refuse. As they took their places in the set forming up, he felt her eyes run over him, assessing the gawky body concealed by the finest London tailoring. He observed her frankly in return. She was not the tallest woman in the room by any means, yet her eyes still met his on an even level – or would have, if she ever looked directly at him.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by watcher, Herr Travers. Is that some new sort of diplomatic post?"

"Please, Miss Lindholm, don't attempt to simper - it doesn't become you. You are the Slayer; you kill vampires and other malevolent entities. I have been sent by the Watcher's Council to oversee your work. It's that simple. A modicum of co-operation on your part will make both our tasks much easier."

Her hand tightened painfully on his, and he was reminded that this was a woman who could – if she chose – break his arm as casually as she sneezed. "I fear you are suffering from some sort of misapprehension, Herr Travers. I don't think you should bring this subject up again."

"I fear you can't be rid of me so easily, Miss Lindholm." He bared his teeth at her in what passed for a smile. "Dear me, you seem rather pale. Are you suffering from a headache? Perhaps you should return home. One can't be too careful these days; influenza comes on so suddenly."

 

With exquisitely overbearing courtesy, Roderick forced Signy to accept his company as an escort home. Lady Winters had to vouch for him to her mother, of course, or she wouldn't have been allowed to leave with him; and even then the dreadful woman felt it necessary to drop several hints heavy as lead about Signy's newly-engaged status. Roderick tried to keep the horror he felt from showing on his face – he hadn't considered the dangers of being taken for a suitor.

Through it all Signy remained passive and silent. But as soon as they had turned the corner of the square outside the Embassy and were out of sight from any of its windows, she dropped his arm and turned to face him, hands propped on her hips.

"At least here we can speak plainly. Herr Travers, I do not know who you are or what this council you speak of may be. You seem to be aware that there are... things around us that others do not perceive. But for the last three years I have been fighting against them completely alone. I've never heard of this council of yours. If they're so determined to be helpful, where have they been? Where have you been?"

Roderick had his own question: where had this confident and much less malleable woman appeared from? "The situation was, ah, unusual, Miss Lindholm. When the previous Slayer died in 1915, I could not cross the Allied blockade to reach Stockholm, even if I had been free to travel." She stared at him and said nothing. "Unlike your countrymen, I was fighting on the Western Front," he added, feeling unaccountably driven to justify himself. Why should he care what one of these Scandinavian equivocators thought?

"My countrymen were trying to survive while being ground between two millstones, Herr Travers. And all of us were busy finding enough food to stay alive." She walked away without another word and he was left to hurry after her down the dark street, sloppy with melting snow.

"Miss Lindholm-" She whirled on him, moonlight flashing off a tiny knife in her hand, and at the pure ferocity on her face he wondered stupidly _Am I about to become the next Watcher to be killed by a Slayer? _Before he could do more than form the intention of stepping back she leaped –

and drove her heel between the eyes of a demon two feet behind him. It staggered and dropped to its knees; the raking blow of its claws, meant to disembowel him, fell short and ripped his coat.

Before the creature could recover – fortunately one of the clumsier species, he noted automatically – Signy spun and kicked it in the head once more. It hit the ground with a squelching thud like a ripe pear dropping. As it lay snorting through a broken nose she bent down, holding her skirts back with one hand, and chopped her knife across its throat in one smooth stroke.

"No, don't-" But Roderick was too late; she had already turned away and left the thing lying in the pool of acidic blood silently spreading from its severed neck. Lifting her skirt, she began to examine the hem for stains.

"I'm afraid it was unwise to dispatch a Hydra demon in that fashion."

"Should I have let it kill you instead?" she demanded, without looking up from the satin.

"Your classical education has been sadly neglected, I see. That particular species is named for the hydra of ancient Greek myth, which grew two heads whenever one was decapitated."

Her head snapped up and she let fly an ululating string of Swedish that even a non-native could translate as gutter oaths. Behind her the demon's body lurched upright again, casting a faint two-headed shadow on the slick pavement.

Signy would not close with the creature again, but minced delicately around it like a waltzing music box figurine. "Stop playing about and kill it!" he shouted irritably.

She didn't bother to look over her shoulder at him, but kept her eyes focused on the shambling warty-skinned Hydra. "I can't afford to get ichor on this evening gown, Herr Travers. If you're here to help me, do something to help!"

_A Watcher watches; he does not fight_. That lesson seemed decidedly less self-evident here in a dark Swedish alley than it did in the Council House in London. He looked about for anything that might serve as a weapon, but nothing but garbage-filled, grey slush was underfoot. _When in doubt, throw things_. He scooped up handsfuls of the stinking muck, trying not to think about its composition, and hurled them at the demon's heads.

His cricket talent had not atrophied, it seemed: he scored two direct hits. Dazed by the missiles, the creature pawed at its muddy eyes – all four of them – and turned toward him. The left head shot out and its teeth clashed shut a whisker away from his nose just before Signy stepped in and stabbed it in the back with her silver penknife.

Roderick rocked back on his heels and swallowed bile. This was the closest he'd come to death since the Marne. The sensation, he discovered, was no more agreeable in civilian life.

Signy cursed again. "My stockings are ruined! Mother will have a fit."

"If you'd waited for my advice before tackling the demon, your ensemble might still be unblemished," Roderick pointed out. She gave him a long considering look; was it his imagination or were her ice-blue eyes marginally less hostile?

"I suppose you might be useful after all," she said grudgingly. "Tell me what a Watcher is for again. And what was it you called me – a Killer?"

Roderick smiled. He had her now. "A Slayer. You see, in every generation, there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness..."

 

Roderick passed the nib of his pen through the candle flame, took a deep breath, and began to write with a white-knuckled hand, pressing so hard that the pen seemed in danger of snapping in two.

> Intelligence correct: Signy Lindholm is Chosen One. Self-taught after call at age fifteen. Prodigious natural strength, even for Slayer, and some grasp of basic tactics. Does not trust me, but have convinced her thanks to opportune mtg. with Hydra demon that I may be of use. Await further instructions.

Dropping the pen, he shook his fingers, hissing as cramped muscles flexed and the words he had just written faded from the page without a trace.

He cracked his knuckles one more time and clumsily picked up the pen again. Closing his eyes, he did not watch as his hand jerked across the paper, producing a forceful, spiky handwriting completely different from his own careful copperplate.

> _Continue supervision and instruction. No alteration in plan. Locate suitable specimen soonest possible._

__ 

_August 1919_

Roderick had never thought of Sweden having a summer at all; his mental image of it was composed solely of snow and evergreen trees. Arriving during what passed for spring here had certainly done little to change his mind.

But now nearly every day rose to a bright hot peak of sunshine. The light lingered pure and clear until past ten o'clock at night, as well; an advantage for Slayers in northern latitudes he had never considered, though perhaps not enough to make up for the long winter. It was not until he saw Signy's colour brighten and the grey smears under her eyes fade that he realized how six months of half a day's night must have drained her strength.

Fortunately, the informer he was meeting today did not require darkness. Stepping into the fetid alleyway behind the abattoir, he tried to speak on one exhaled breath. "Rataxes?"

A muffled slurping sound came from the end of the alley and a Raksha demon shuffled into the late afternoon sunlight, wiping its face. Roderick looked away from its maggotty mouth. "Did you find anyone useful?"

"Think so, Terverss. But not the ones you wished for."

"How hard can it be to spot a pair of vampires?" Roderick demanded. "I know they were in Copenhagen last month. Even one of them would have been sufficient."

The demon shrugged, half-spreading its stubby wings. "Heard someone was looking for 'em, maybe? Gone the day before I got there. Package left behind in their nest, addressed to you." He held out a tiny square box pinched between two of his thick bronze claws.

It wasn't ensorcelled, as far as Roderick could tell. He reached out slowly, took it in one hand and peeled off the pretty silver paper and ribbons. Inside on a bed of cotton lay a stiffened, bloody piece of skin tattooed with the sigil of the Watcher's Council.

Roderick swallowed convulsively. "All right. Well, perhaps that pair weren't the best choice. They've already accounted for one Slayer," he muttered.

The Raksha shuffled a half-step closer and Roderick snapped the box shut, flinching as a stronger wave of stench reached his nose. "Found a good one, though. Calls himself Einar Bloodthirst – said you'd know him."

"Ah, yes," Roderick said absently. "Viking berserker, turned in the twelfth century. Yes, he'll do very well. You've earned your reward." He tossed the demon a scrap of copper incised with three runes. "Show that to the gravedigger at Saint Agneta's. He'll see you get what you want."

 

The spells of warning laid on Roderick's front door told him someone had entered that way; the fact that his more extreme defenses had not been triggered told him that the visitor was not malicious. Still, the last thing Roderick expected to find in his flat was an inebriated Slayer.

Signy was in his sitting room, a silver flask engraved with her father's initials in one hand and one of Roderick's own cut-crystal Scotch glasses in the other. She was sipping from the glass with the pursed face of a child forced to take medicine; the air smelled of licorice. Sighing, Roderick put away his silver-loaded pistol.

"Hello Roderick!" she shouted. "Come in and celebrate with me."

Roderick laid the small packet aside in the tiny cold-water kitchen and put the kettle on the hob. "What are we celebrating?"

"My birthday."

He put his head around the doorframe and stared at her. "I thought your birthday was next Friday, the night before the engagement party."

She slopped more clear liquid into the glass and drank it, making another hideous face. "That's my name day, and that way Mother gets credit for two parties in one. But today is the day I was born. Happy birthday to me!" she shouted again at the top of a Slayer's considerable lung power. Roderick's ears rang.

"What in God's name are you drinking?"

"Akvavit. It's… " She stopped to think. "I don't know what it is, exactly. Like vodka, but there's a flavour I don't know the English word for."

Roderick rolled his eyes; he wasn't interested in a dissertation on Swedish liqueurs. "Never mind. Just give it to me."

Signy let him pull the flask of akvavit away from her, but tipped out another glassful first. Deciding that wasn't a battle worth fighting, Roderick allowed her to keep it. She flourished the glass in the air and swallowed half of it at a gulp, this time with no face at the taste. "And here's to me, the lucky bride." The bitterness in her voice was audible.

"I didn't know you were reluctant to marry," Roderick said cautiously. He wasn't sure how many of his Slayer's secrets he wanted to hear.

"We have no money. The war ruined our investments; all we have left is property that brings in less than it costs to run, and a mouldering country estate. My brother is too young to marry yet, so my mother looked around for a rich man who wanted to buy a connection to an old family." Signy drained the last of the aqvavit. "I suppose it could be worse. Nils is only thirty-five, and he's not repulsive."

Admittedly that wasn't much of a recommendation, but Roderick still didn't see a problem. "So what is your objection?"

"I don't want to marry. Ever. It's difficult enough hunting demons now; imagine trying to sneak away from a husband in the middle of the night! And Nils is going to want children... I can't think of anything more ridiculous than a pregnant Slayer. Or more likely to get killed quickly," she said gloomily.

The kettle whistled and Roderick went back into the kitchen. Signy went on talking, more quietly now – he had to strain to hear her over the burbling of the kettle. "I don't feel well lately. I've been making ridiculous mistakes. I'm worried… I think my time is running out."

Roderick's hand stilled for an instant over the steeping teapot. "Nonsense. You're imagining things, Signy. You'll feel better after the wedding. We'll work something out, come up with a plan so that you can continue patrolling after you marry." He pushed a heavy china mug into her hands. "Drink this. It will clear your head, then we'll see about getting you back home."

 

"Do you mean to say I can't even observe my own Slayer's Cruciamentum?"

Julian wouldn't meet Roderick's eyes. "Your father believes you've become too attached to Miss Lindholm. He sent me because he doesn't wish the test to be biased."

"Biased!" Roderick slammed his hands on the table. "I've done all he asked. I've stacked the deck so high against her that it's nearly impossible for her to succeed – I've been slipping her drugs for a month, I tracked down the oldest vampire in Scandinavia– "

"I think he was hoping for William the Bloody," Julian put in helpfully.

"Yes, and all that trying to capture him and his undead doxy got us was a Watcher skinned alive," Roderick snapped. "I'm starting to wonder if he _wants_ her to fail."

Julian sighed. "I'm no more privy to your father's plans than you are. Accept it, Roderick, the die has been cast. You've done your best to prepare the Slayer, and now you will simply have to wait to see how she fares."

"Have you ever witnessed a Cruciamentum, Julian?"

"Twice."

"And what happened?"

Again, the other Watcher looked away. "It wasn't... pretty. But one of the girls did survive," he added brightly. "There is nearly a fifty percent success rate, remember that."

"Shut up, Julian," Roderick snarled.

 

_Three o'clock and all's well_. Roderick sat at his kitchen table, a bottle of Scotch and a glass in front of him. Both were half full.

Before he left Julian had – oh so apologetically – laid a spell of binding to prevent Roderick from leaving his flat until Signy's ordeal was over. Like a too-tight collar, the spell left a sense of constriction in the air. For the first few hours, Roderick hadn't been able to keep from picking at it, but whatever faults Julian might have, he was a master sorcerer, and there was no flaw in the spell.

He breathed in the fumes from another swallow of Scotch, and sat up straight as the constraining spell suddenly snapped. The Cruciamentum was complete.

Roderick left his flat with the door half-open behind him. A light snow had begun to fall and the roads were slick underfoot, but that didn't keep him from running toward the dockyards and the derelict warehouse he'd prepared so thoroughly for Signy's test, never dreaming he'd not be there in person.

The warehouse was still magically barred. Roderick bounced off the door like a raindrop against a window pane. He fell to hammering it with his fists and shouting.

"Roderick! Quiet, man." Suddenly Julian was there, shaking his shoulders. "It's over. There's nothing you can do."

The other Watcher's blank eyes told Roderick what had happened, but he couldn't stop himself from asking. "Is she alive? Did she pass?"

"She killed Einar," Julian answered reluctantly. "But she didn't survive." He put out a tentative hand, but Roderick shoved past. "Really, Roderick, it's best if you don't–"

Roderick didn't hear. His senses were overwhelmed with one thing, the image of a body in a torn and muddy lavender dress lying on the stained floor.

 

"Do you never ask yourself why we do this, Julian? What had Signy done to deserve any of this but escape our control? She survived on her own – with no Watcher, with no idea even of what she was – and for that her reward is to be put down? We could have learned so much from her, could have helped future Slayers."

There was no sympathy in Julian's eyes. "You knew what the assignment was when you took it, Roderick. I didn't hear you ask any of these questions then."

Roderick scrubbed a hand across his eyes. "We're as bad as Haig. No, worse. Misguided fool that he was, at least Haig had a clear end in sight; he was trying to win a war and didn't care how many men he had to sacrifice to do it. I sacrificed Signy and I have no idea what the larger aim was, other than keeping every Slayer firmly under our thumb." He stared down into the bottom of his empty glass. "What am I going to do?"

Julian leaned over and slopped the rest of the bottle into the glass. "Drink this and stop maundering, to start with." The naked contempt in his voice shocked Roderick into silence. "I'll tell you what you're going to do. You'll go home and grovel to the Council. Your nightmares will pass after a few months. In a year or two, you'll marry – some horse-faced deb your family's vetted thoroughly. You'll have a son or two and you'll raise them the way your father raised you, too spineless to question anything they're ever asked to do."

"You're wrong," Roderick muttered. "It may be too late for me, but I'll see to it that any son of mine gets out of this."

Julian didn't bother to argue. He stood and picked up his hat. "Can I trust you not to do anything stupid, now? I've got to make this morning's boat - I've been tapped to be the next girl's Watcher."

"Ah, well, don't let me keep you then. And here's to this one being more malleable!" Roderick lifted his glass and slopped Scotch over his cuff.

Julian raised an eyebrow. "My dear boy, she's from Sussex and we've been keeping an eye on her since she was nine. I have no fear of this one turning out to be anything but a credit to me and to the Council."

"To the Council," Roderick mumbled as his head slowly slid down on to the table. On his way out Julian turned off the gaslight and shut the door, leaving him in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the [Tales of the Slayers ficathon](http://www.livejournal.com/users/thenyxie/198991.html), for someone who wanted an aristocratic Slayer in post-World War I Sweden and a mention of one of the Fang Gang.
> 
> Many thanks to ElenaBTVS for quick beta and for convincing me it didn't suck too badly.


End file.
